Complete Me(24)

With almost painful brutality, I jam my forefinger against the “down” button, but I don’t want to wait. I need to move, and if I’m not moving toward Damien, I need to be going somewhere else. I shift my stance in the hallway, feeling suddenly at loose ends. At the end of the hall, a lighted sign marks the stairwell. I hurry that direction, then slip off my shoes. I hold them by the heels and run down the three flights of stairs in my bare feet. It feels good—it feels right—and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I slip my shoes back on and exit the stairwell into the lobby.

I am not sure what I intend to do. It has been such a long day and I am so exhausted that the sun shining through the windows of the hotel seems like an anomaly. But it is still early afternoon on a stunningly beautiful summer day.

I turn toward the entrance, but I’m stopped by the vibration of my phone. I yank it out of my purse expecting Damien.

It’s a text from Ollie. Turn around.

I do. He’s standing behind me, a few feet from the entrance to the bar. He lifts his hand and waves.

Despite myself, I grin and wave back.

He lifts his phone, and I see him typing another message. A second later, my phone buzzes.

Hey, lady. Can I buy you a drink?

I can’t help it—I laugh. A little early, isn’t it? I type, but the message doesn’t send because my phone is dead. Shit. I think back and remember that I forgot to plug it in when we got back from the lake last night.

I hold it up so Ollie can see it and then, with an exaggerated gesture, I drop it from two fingers into my purse, as if I’m discarding something useless and slightly gross. Then I start walking toward him. He goes in ahead of me, and when I enter, I find him already sitting at the bar. The bartender comes up to us and slides a martini in front of Ollie and a bourbon on the rocks in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say, speaking both to the bartender and to Ollie. “It’s a little early.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says. “Not today.”

I take a sip of the drink. “No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”

He stirs the martini with the olive-skewered toothpick. “I’m glad Stark’s in the clear. I am. I swear.”

I study his face, because I do not understand where this is coming from. But it is like a bright shiny sparkle of welcomeness in a shitty day that should have been an incredible one. So I do the only thing I can do—I smile and tell him thank you.

“I figured you’d be locked away celebrating,” he says.

“Damien’s asleep.”

“Must be exhausted,” Ollie says. “I am. It’s been a hell of a wild ride.”

This is small talk, and I can’t stand it. “Do you know?” I demand. “Do you know why they dismissed the charges?’

He tilts his head as he studies me. “Is that really a line you want me to cross?”

I think about it. About how shattered Damien seems. I’ve refused to hear what Ollie’s had to say about Damien in the past, but now I’m afraid that if I don’t know exactly what is in those photos, I can’t help.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I want to know.”

He exhales loudly. “Oh, hell, Nikki. I don’t know. For once, I can’t tell you a damn thing. I’m sorry.”

The wave of irritation I expect doesn’t come. Instead, a swell of relief washes over me. Whatever is in those photos, I don’t want Ollie to know. “It’s okay,” I say, then close my eyes. “It’s okay.”

He takes a long sip of his martini. “So, you want to go grab a late lunch? Hang out? Make up conversations between the folks at the other tables?”